by Mark James
Livingston was a man without means, not a pot to piss in, not'ing was really his to have. Well, maybe d'clothes on he back, nobody wanted those, they were worn and out of style. He was a nice lookin' man; if you ever get the chance to really look at him, do so. I'is not no liar. But who would notice him, dark skin, thick beard, groomed himself as best he could, using a comb, and a pair of scissors to shape and trim the hair on he head and face in the bathroom weekly. Smellin' like Old Spice and Magic shave powder. But. Woman was goin' for dougla-boys these days, man who mix wid creole, white or indian blood, anyt'ing but one hundred percent black was better. He was stuck in a past that preferred him, '68 -'72 was good years for him. He had it good, workin' for Texaco allowed him to make good money and see more dan just Trinidadian people. For a time he believed it, life in d'palm a'yuh hand and all dat shit-talk people wid money does feed yuh. '72 might as well be remembered as a good year, according to how he mind recollect, I not sure. See, the problem was not so much his appearance, he had a stubborn mind, the mind of an impaled dreamer, the type of man that had been admired, thought himself good and smart and maybe easy on the eyes to many of the women he did meet in and around Port-of-Spain. All t'ings considered, I knew in some ways that perception of himself was as true as it was a lie, but it was no longer 1972...
Ms. T'ing one, two and three find they'self fallin' in and out he bed, or he outa she bed. All the while he longed for a life that consisted of much more than waking up, after a night of drinkin' and gamblin', reaching for a cigarette, or some marijuana, goin' to d'pool-hall to spen'up what little money he had to he name. Returning home empty handed and drunk, or if he was lucky, Livingston sometimes had plenty money to go gallary he'self about Town and showoff with, and Ms.T'ing was ready and willin' to pull she panty down for him providing she get to walk away with some of what he did win; never mind he too black and d'hair up on he head too knotty. Yuh see, men didn't teach each other not'ing. Boys will be boys' and all that misunderstood nonsense fallin' out people mout' for too long now. A bunch'a regurgitated unfounded doctrine if yuh ask me. Most men Livingston's age didn't know dey ass from dey asshole; they had looks, big-talk and sex as indicators, and women who informed them or further contributed to their confusion. I know plenty more man just like he, just look at dem, Johnny, Blake, Dudeman, and Aldwyn, always in d'damn pool-hall. Not sure what dey hoping to find in there, but is d'same Devil haunting dem. "How come you not married yet wid'a good woman by yuh'side?" One woman after the other would inquire, fool talk for quick money. Livingston had the same response for all-a-dem: "I doh want no woman and chil'ren tiein' up my hands." He winnings from d'card table wouldn't allow him tuh see straight, much less how he bein' played for fool by d'woman dem. It was enough to make she settle for bein' Ms. T'ing number four, five or six. The routine was set, the pace, erratic, the reality, chosen. Livingston and men like him continued to secretly hope for more, but Pride, Ego, Ignorance, and occasionally, Dudeman, would keep them bolted to their conditions: a dormant mental state that set them revolving back to the pool-hall on George Street.
Come home and see 'bout meh nah...?
I know how to take care a'meh man...
Is your baby dat is, yes...
Oh God, why yuh do meh like dis Livingston!...
Awakened from a dream, the dream that was stalking him like a mad dog ready to rush and bite him. A year now with no let up in sight. Four, always four woman in d'dream, like sirens, each evoking a desire, each: selfish, craving, wantin' what he could not give of his own free will. Livingston rolled over onto he side to reach for he pack of Du Maurier cigarettes knockin' over a half finished bottle of Stag beer. The pain in he head from last nights carryin' on make him t'ink twice about tryin' to catch it from rollin' off the edge of the bedside table. Clanking to the floor, the bottle spilled its contents, adding to the collection of carpet stains and sour odors within the room. Protesting the noise it would make, and the annoying dream, a sound barely makin' it past his evenly measured lips, instead, he decided to hold his head between his hands and groan. Pain subsiding, he opened his eyes only to be ridiculed by the four walls that kept his secrets, sometimes even from him, seeing as he wasn't ready to deal in truth. Women and rum keep him from reality, and for now it was what he wanted. Laying there at half past eleven in the morning, his black rigid body naked from head to toe, decidin' wether or not to continue lookin' for he cigarettes or what number to play as a result of the dream with four woman in it, Livingston's thoughts were interrupted by the flush of his toilet. Surprised by the sudden sound but not confused as to the source, he sat up and prepared for her entrance.
Dinah turned the corner, exiting the bathroom. A sight she was and unlike any of the women Livingston usually entertained. Dark, graceful, tall with close-cropped hair and curved swaying hips. Like the man in the bed, she too was naked and in search of a morning cigarette. Observin' him without bein' obvious, he was flat and muscular all over, she comparin' him to her Mister; they were the same age, yet her husband had a belly and a ass that was in steady competition. Not speaking, he sat up while she retrieved a lighter. Strike, flame to tip, inhaled, exhaled, head to the ceilin'. Dinah passed the lit tobacco to the man beside her and reached to the floor to retrieve her green and white striped wrap-dress from off the floor. Make-up in place, she was soon ready to return to the life she left behind just so she could have one more night with Livingston.
If yuh must know, Dinah leave she two chil'ren and she husband up in Arouca. She say she go'be gone a few days since she have tuh look in on she 'Tanty Margaret, who sick, or she two eye not good no more. Not sure which story tellin'. Is so dem young girl is nowadays; they get a good man what love them and want tuh take care a'dem, what dey do wid him? Lie and connive an'go lay down wid man like Livingston Baker. Tying d'belt on her dress, she turn 'round readyin' she'self to leave him. Smoke runnin' from he lips, sweat bead up on he chest and hung on the coils of his hair, and he manhood jump up from he body, hard and with purpose. Dinah see everything but him. She see he eyes talking to she without he mouth and tongue forming words she could understand. "Whey yuh in a'hurry goin' to?" Finally she could concentrate. "Baker, you know better dan tuh ask me a t'ing like dat, ah was here d'last three days, is Tuesday and I have chil'ren and a husband to go see 'bout." Avoiding his eyes, she set her mind on responsibility. So much for beers, fetes and good times with Livingston. Dinah make up she mind to leave this man where he was and go back home before somt'ing go bad. "No kiss?" He askin'. She kiss he, and he kiss she back and changed she mind at the same time. She closed the door putting Livingston behind it, but it was clear that she had bitten off more that she could chew.
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